My first memories of Föhr lie right on the edge of certainty, the images so clouded I can’t be sure what’s real and what’s been constructed from fading photographs and old stories. This much I can say for sure: I first visited the German island in 1987 as a four-year-old, when my hair was as white as that of many of the local children, including the family friends who were hosting us. Beyond this, I recall being placed in the handle-basket of my uncle’s bike; visiting a long-forgotten Viking fort; and watching steam sashay from fresh bread that had been delivered to the windowsill of our thatched cottage.
